Wolf Tantrum
by LadyD312
Summary: Colonel Ackerson called her his 'personal Grim Reaper'. To those looking in, they believed it to be a joke; she was most successful in assassinations after all. And yet, even as they laughed behind closed doors, they knew not to come close to the beast. The Lone Wolf was a precise soldier with a disturbed mind. What really happened to the members of Noble Team?
1. Chapter 1: Sinister Innocence

Disclaimer: I do not own Bungie, nor their characters Colonel Ackerson, Dr. Catherine Halsey, or Spartan 312-Noble Six. I am merely adding onto Bungie's original description of Ackerson, Halsey, and Six by creating tales of my own to give depth to these characters.

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_People are not disturbed by things, but by the view they take of them. -Epictetus_

**Wolf Tantrum**  
**Chapter 1: Disturbed Innocence**

It was the grace in which the male carried himself that initially drew attention to his toned figure. Acrimony increases the heart rate; the brain pushes to work faster; blood cells demand for more oxygen; the lungs comply, expanding to receive oxygen and nitrogen only to decompress with carbon dioxide. This single thought flutters through the assassin's head as it slithers forward from the shadows.

The bulking form, obtuse rectangular angles; despite these characteristics that set the killer apart from the smooth, granite texture walls, they are not noticed. Too much time and training under men who believed in this assassin achieving the impossible. Discarding any conscious thought that is not related to the kill, the body moves a fraction.

He sets down his datapad and turns to the window in one singular movement. This assassin craves for this moment; he does not know. Doesn't expect someone to slither out and take his life in a brief, remarkably clean pain. It is when the armor clad warrior pulls from the shadows that Marcus de Garneau feels his heart surge into a rapid tantrum of panic.

Without another fleeting glance to the warrior, he attempts to make a dashing assault to the drawer in his cherry-wood desk. All to no avail. The killer is at least seven times faster. The drawer slides open and from it, the standard military M6D pistol is gently pried out from thick folders filled with documents that are not of significance.

de Garneau's eyes fill with a foreboding, dull gleam. The barrel of the M6D is placed to his head. And through it he feels the unmistakable thirst for bloodshed. He trembles, either from fear or from exhilarating awe, he is unable to determine.

"Please," the man croaks. "Before...before I die...I want to know who you a-"

The gunshot rings in his ears. Painful screams are muffled behind a slim black glove. His eyes-such a warming shade of hunter green, the assassin notices- ablaze with unshed tears. Slowly, the intruder tilts their head to whisper into the de Garneau's ear.

_"I am Hyper Lethal_," she whispered, an unnaturally large smile stretching across her face as she exited a single bullet into de Garneau's eye socket. "_And I am here to take you to hell._"  
She remained there, watching as his skin grew pale. Fluorescent blue wavered underneath as if thin vines learning to thrive along the stillness of a tree trunk. Her smile faded, eyes filling just as the gleam of askance and confusion drifted from de Garneau. Bloodlust, having engulfed its meal for that time of day, winked into the depths of the girl's soul.

Never did she know that her name would ring true; she would make a sacrifice no else could. Some day, this girl would become a Lieutenant, and after that, Noble Six. Until those days arrived, this girl would remain. Armed in her recently received armor, the prowler hedged to her feet. Only did she do this once she snapped de Garneau' s neck. '_Just to be safe_,' the inner voice whispered to her. '_Never leave a job half assed. You earned this spot, now you must keep it._'

"Yes," she purred in reply, making haste towards the elevators. "Of course. You're right, Kronos." Kronos was smiling; she could just feel the laughter tumbling from his body to hers as he danced in her conscience.

Kronos knew what to do. He guided her during the delivery of deadly blows and the concealment of empty carcasses. His laughter trickled through the cracks of her sanity when blood toiled from her fingers to the ground. Overall, during her entire past, Kronos was the only to cling around long enough. Some called her insane and sputtered nonsense suggesting that Kronos didn't exist. But he did; it was just that he would not reveal himself to those who would not understand. _Underestimating_, he hissed to her in his sultry voice of jazz and gunmetal. Never will they know.

A couple of test tubes and a bag made of toxic plastic filled to the brim with outdated blood cells could kept her organs functional...

Kronos kept together what little sanity there was, if any. And that thought alone gave her enough energy to trudge through rubble and moistened earth to the extraction zone.

**Death count... 32 kills logged...**  
**Commentary?**

**'Well done, 312. As per your request, I will send in those extra mods you've been curious to dismantle. I've already sent in the next dossier. Get the job done.**

**-Ackerson.'**

The colonel sunk into his cow-hide leather chair. 32 kills were logged by the age of sixteen. Ackerson moistened his lips with one quick swipe of a traitorous tongue. Number three-one-two proved that she was the asset, the only true successor of the Spartan III program. Colonel Ackerson spared an uncaring glance to the window just outside of his ONI office window. He could almost recall with perfect detail the features of the woman whom so desperately placed him into an outrage. Soon before long though, Halsey would receive a knock on her door. And it would his Spartan on that doorstep, gun in hand, wiping that speculated expression off if her face. Revenge is a demanding emotion, he concluded. It demanded respect and at some point, blood.

Whomever could provide both, could be king.

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A/N: Hey guys! For those of you whom have been reading and following the HLV story, I'm sorry I haven't been able to update. My computer charging port was pushed inside the computers hard drive and everything was saved to it for HLV. I had this story sitting on my Drive account, so I decided to upload. Hoped you enjoyed it!  
Chapters will be added every two weeks since I have a head start on this story. Until I can figure out how to fix my HP, Hyper Lethal Vectors is unfortunately on hold.


	2. Chapter 2: Of My Sins

_The serpent, the king, the tiger, the stinging wasp, the small child, the dog owned by other people, and the fool: these seven ought not to be awakened from sleep._ -Chanakya

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**Wolf Tantrum**  
**Chapter 2: Of My Sins**

Three months after the fall of the Gingham Conviction Militia's leader Marcus de Ganreau...

Rain.

It seemed like several years had passed since tears fell from carefully whisked cheeks. His eyes, resembling that shade of grey that harbored those cheeks, flickered as another drop fell onto his helmet. A tragic howl of thunder made the scene before the boy all the more dramatic. Standing only twenty feet away rose a temple. Engraved into the roof were holes, dripping with liquefied tin. The boy turned and tilted his head to accommodate the building thoroughly. His estimation said that it couldn't be any more than two stories up- this hypothesis was supported by his visor's calculation. Venturing further to the makeshift temple, he pulled his SMG from the seal along the length of his thigh.

At last, his back pressed to the smooth surface next to the door. _One_, he counted in his head. He bent his knees just slightly, letting every muscle constrict before tightening. This would give him the option to jump toward or backward from what was inside.

_Two..._ In a span of .6082 seconds-noted with a smug grin- the boy checked for ammo, and undid the safety. Not that SMGs should have required such a small function to hold back the 'sprinkler'. For what could have been the last time, Spartan 313-Grey, brushed his fingers against the name etched into the barrel of the side arm. It had been ages since he last heard of her. Breathed her scent of 19th century gunpowder and tragic rage.

_Three_. Grey set his hips and twisted his torso to his right. Swiftly landing a foot against the door, it flew backwards, cold air and wet tears following sprinting after it. The distraction was enough to keep anyone inside running to not get hit. Grey pushed off of his nine toes. His form became nothing but a blur of cigarette ash as he walked inside and raised his gun to fire off at the man in the chair at the head of the room-

Only to find that he was slumped against it. Grey halted in his tracks, skidding to a stop just in time in front of the wide oak desk. He studied the way head rolled onto backwards at an acute angle with his neck bearing numerous knife marks to the world. Along the open wounds laid nearly-dried blood that had just stopped dripping moments before. Across the deathly face of the pompous warlord ran scratches. Each formed an overlying picture; there children, men, women, a church... It was as if someone drew all of the murders he is responsible for onto to his...

"Soul," Grey let the word drop onto a stale atmosphere. All of these homicidal acts meant nor will ever mean anything to the people who crumpled under the boot of Tony Zalo's fish-scaled boot. The Spartan inhaled. Exhaled. With Zalo dead, it left no chance of gathering intel on the whereabouts of alliances. Zalo's men were used to a little wear and tear, but didn't have the type of numbers that other militia groups could exert. Grey gave the temple a glance of appraisal. He was pretty sure he had about two minutes and thirty-four seconds to haul ass.

He only wasted about fifteen seconds carving the imagery before his dulled eyes into memory. Just another picture...Another face... All you have to do is remember it. Can you do that three-thirteen? Can you show me how well you can accomplish that task?

_Oh...Well, that's too bad. Just another disappointment, Sarah._

. . .

_Yes that's right, gut him. He's of no use to me now... I have **her**._

His lips twitched into an unsteady smile for leaving in time. Despite the shuddering ache in the back of his throat and cranium, he stumbled outside and trudged just far enough to avoid large debris. Eventually he discovered a cave hiding underneath a blanket of teal moss between two vast species of tree. The moss was peeled away to reveal a sanctum fit for a wolf.

A lone one.

Chest aches tended to come around more often. Especially since he took her.

_Since you took away Revenue._

That name-holding more meaning than the denotative meaning of the word- would remain on the barrel of that SMG for quite some time.

_Just until I see her_, he soothed his conscience. _Just until she returns._

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**Date: October 7, 2536.**  
**Planet: Tramonto.**  
**Continent: Malai.**  
**Country: Tremble.**  
**City: Rose**.

Amongst the sunlight, a bird flew, eyes caressing the field seven yards below. It began to descend upon the slight movement in between blades of grass. Just as its beak split into two equal halves to swallow the worm whole, two larger jaws leapt up from a mound of dirt just two inches to the right; the sparrow was encased by the tiger.

A child-watching the spectacle take place from a relatively safe location and height- leaped into the air with a cry of appreciation at the tiger's ability to phase into the field despite its luminescent fur. The boy's lips curled into a grin that would alarm any mother of the bloodlust tucked away into those large sandalwood eyes that possessed more than a quarter of his face. Below, the tiger's stomach rumbled; it began to coil and move in waves of hunger as it swallowed the sparrow. Without taking a glance at the button on the switch, the boy's fingers pressed into it.

Another sparrow was released from one of the thousand of cages. Just as before, the tiger's pupils narrowed into slits of practiced maliciousness. It moved to crawl back under the mound of dirt. A button with curled script was pressed this time and the 'worm' appeared in the ground as the sparrow flew over the field by instinct.

The only difference during this practice was that he could not watch the sparrow engulfed into the heated darkness of a murderer's mouth. He was pulled by large hands into an embrace that made his nostrils flare and eyes water and the tightening pressure around his chest.

"Release me, you pompous fool!" He growled between clenched rows of straightened pearls.

The woman pouted as she did just as she was told. "My, my, Atlas; what has your little panties in a twist?"

Atlas snarled in warning, turning his attention onto the tiger. "You should learn to keep your trap shut, Medusa. Or do I need to make a call?" Atlas struck a finger in the direction of a digital pad in the corner of the desk filled with buttons.

Medusa sneered and tossed slick hair over her shoulder. "You know you're too much of wuss to actually do it," she paused to study a strand of hair that flew into her face with brutal calculation before continuing as if their conversation had never happened. "Good morning. How is Ares this fine Wednesday?"

He could only roll his eyes. "As if you truly care. Medi."

"How many times do I have to tell you not call me that?!"

Atlas chuckled at her outburst. "Why ever not?"

"You know damn well I want nothing to do with her," Medusa snarled.  
The boy shrugged nonchalantly, sandalwood eyes tracing the dark strokes of Ares' stripes.

"You know, for a thirteen year old boy, you're awfully silent."

At that statement, Atlas frowned as he studied the tiger behind the glass of 'protection'. There was no change of technique when the second sparrow was released. He was sure of this. Such a fact was unacceptable. More treatments would have to be installed, he supposed.

"Gather the others in the chamber, Medi. I believe it's time for a change of location."

Medusa blinked in undisguised shock before smoothly applying her mask of subtle curiosity. "Oh? Does that include Hades and Kronos?"

"Yes."

She spun on heel and pressed the green button on the panel to open the door. Medusa paused, glancing over her shoulder the figure no bigger than five feet. "Ackerson?"

"What of him?" Atlas called.

"Has he disposed of the doctor?"

Atlas ran one trembling hand over his face. "No. Be patient; her skin is thick, but not untouchable."

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A/N: Just as a heads up; this story is very dark and speaks in volumes as to the mind of someone who is psychotic. I should have gave a warning in the first chapter, but I'm deciding to place it here in the second because from now on, the chapters may or may not become gruesome, horrific, or seriously disturbing. So, proceed at your own caution.  
Another thing is the few characters mentioned in the last bit may confuse you, but be reassured that they hold a significant presence. Thank you for reading!


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